


The Ghost Of You

by darlingsdream



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Requited Love, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Soulmates, Shared Dreams, Soulmarks, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Unrequited Love, different soulmarks, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingsdream/pseuds/darlingsdream
Summary: As good as it feels to not be lonely, Clay hates the way the man from his dreams haunts him every day.In a world filled with soulmates, it takes Clay twenty-one years to figure out what his soulmark is; and once he does, he wonders how in the world he's supposed to find the mysterious person who haunts his dreams like a ghost.---Or: Clay's soulmate and he share dreams, but every morning he wakes up, he has no recognition of who he dreams of.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 342





	1. It's You Who Haunts Me

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this fanfiction is purely fiction made for entertainment purposes. If George or Dream at any time say that they are uncomfortable with being shipped, I will remove this piece. I understand that in reality they are just friends and I respect that! (+ If Dream comes out and says that using his real name in fanfictions makes him uncomfortable, I will also take down this piece!)
> 
> This story was inspired by the songs "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men as well as "Haunted" by Melanie Martinez (Unreleased).
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story! Remember to check out my twitter @darlingsvdream for updates and more :)

For the longest time, which in his case was twenty-one years and counting, Clay decided that his soulmate just enjoyed haunting him. He knew that it wasn't his soulmate's fault, whoever they may be. Soulmates didn't get to pick their soulmarks after all, but God did Clay wish they could.

He wished he could have gotten some easy soulmark. A name on his wrist, a shared tattoo, the ability to write on his skin to his soulmate— something along those lines would have sufficed. God, he would have even put up with having to hear his soulmate's thoughts constantly if he had to. Anything would have worked, something that he _knew_ was there at least.

It seemed like he was never fated to meet his soulmate, and it was such a crude and cruel thought. The more he thought about it, thought about how on _Earth_ he was supposed to contact them, the more frustrated he became.

He didn't want to be jealous, he really didn't— but when his online friends and fellow streamers brought it up one night in a private TeamSpeak call the thoughts began to haunt him even more.

"Sometimes, I get random doodles all over my left arm." Bad had started the conversation, reminiscing on the doodles he'd received earlier that night during his stream. "I feel like they always know how to cheer me up, you know? Today they drew flowers all the way up to my elbow."

"That's sweet, _kind of_ ," Sapnap commented. "I'm pretty sure my soulmate wants to annoy the living _shit_ out of me, man. They've been playing the same songs on repeat for days now. I hear them even in my sleep at this point."

"Do they at least have good taste in music?" Karl quickly asked. "Because if they don't, I see why you'd hate it, but if it was an absolute banger and you're dissing on them like that— we're going to have some issues."

"Banger? Karl, the soundtrack from Adventure Time is the furthest thing from a banger."

Bad was able to contact his soulmate by writing on his skin. Sapnap could hear whatever music his soulmate was listening to and vise versa. Karl had the first words his soulmate would say to him written on his left wrist and on his right, the last words they'd say to him. Quackity had matching tattoos with someone out there.

Yet; he had nothing. Nothing to prove he had a soulmate— nothing to show that there was someone made out there for him. Twenty-one long years were spent, waiting, longing for some sign to show, but they never did.

He thought he was the only one in the group who was that way until Quackity made some comment to George which had him replying with, "I wouldn't know, I don't know what my soulmark is still."

The call was sent into utter silence.

Clay, who had been drinking a glass of water, choked.

"Repeat that?" Quackity laughed awkwardly. "I think I heard you wrong."

"No, you heard me right," George insisted in a monotone tone, but given the fact it was almost six in the morning for him, it was a normal tone for him. "I don't know what my soulmark is still."

" _George_ ," Bad had drawled out, sounding sad, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's okay." George chuckled tiredly into his microphone. "Maybe my soulmate just ignores me."

"I doubt that's it, no one would ever want to ignore you," Bad insisted happily.

"No, no, that is wrong, I would want to ignore you," Sapnap joked teasingly, to which George laughed.

Having collected himself, Clay recapped his water bottle and wiped the sides of his mouth. "I don't know what my soulmark is either," he confessed quietly into his microphone, watching as the TeamSpeak fell silent. "We can be soulmark-less together."

George hums quietly. "That's kind of depressing."

"Ditto," Sapnap added unhelpfully.

With a sigh, Bad was comforting him. "Oh, Clay! It's okay! At least you and George have each other until you figure it out."

Clicking his tongue, Clay settled back into his chair solemnly, leaning his head back to stare up at his dark ceiling. "Right," he agreed, "at least I've got George."

At least he had George; he _always_ had George.

Truthfully, he wasn't sure how to feel about the new revelation he was having. Both he and George didn't know their soulmarks? He guessed it was more common than not. A fair amount of people he knew didn't know theirs either. In fact, a fair amount of people in the _world_ never found theirs out.

He hoped, selfishly, he wouldn't be one of those people.

As he fiddled his thumbs, eyed tracing the faint lines in his ceiling, he listened as his friends drifted into a new topic. Running the pad of his thumb over his fingernails, he thought bitterly, _at least he wasn't the only one._

Maybe the new onslaught of information helped coax him to sleep easier that night, but of course, he kept that entirely to himself.

When he wakes up, he finds himself in his house— it's nothing out of the ordinary. He's sitting up in his bed, his sheets ruffled around him in a messy pile. He runs a hand through his hair and squints his eyes at the half-opened blinds across the room. He can't help the way he groans as he throws himself back into bed and pulls the sheets back over his head, already inviting sleep to take him again.

"Wait, hey!" Under his sheets, his eyes shoot open. "Where are we?"

The familiar voice almost pains him as he throws the sheets off himself and sits up. There's a crick in his neck as he turns over to his gaming chair and sees an all too familiar face sitting there, staring at him with wide eyes.

He's never seen him in person before— but surely, he recognizes him clear as day.

Sun filters through the cracked blinds, shining off his fair skin. His brown hair is tousled, brushed off to the side carelessly. His eyes are on him, staring at him openly and uncaringly, blinking harshly through the filtered light as he sways back and forth on Clay's chair.

"George?" He finds himself calling out, his throat dry and his voice hoarse.

The man sitting in the chair nods with a dumbfounded expression. "Who else would it be?"

"I don't know," he replied cautiously as he pulls the sheets from himself, all while keeping eye-contact with George, who was supposedly in his room with him. "How did you get here?"

George shrugs, pulling himself from the chair with his hands tucked behind his neck. He's wearing a dark gray hoodie that hangs past his hands and bunches loosely around his waist, accompanied by a pair of black shorts that hang just above his knees. As plain as the outfit is, Clay still finds it suiting on him; beautiful, even, but that was probably because he was certainly overly exhausted and confused why a pretty British man was in his house.

"I don't know," George replies cautiously, "I just... woke up here."

 _Oh_ , Clay thinks bitterly. He's dreaming— despite the fact he's never dreamt in his twenty-one years of life. He never recalled dreaming before. His parents called it a blessing, saying he grew up never having nightmares. It never bothered him that he didn't dream. All he ever did was just close his eyes for the night and wake up a blink later. He never thought he was missing anything.

Needless to say, this was strange.

"So, where are we?" George asks again, stepping towards the edge of his bed.

In his tired and hazy state, Clay reaches out toward the George that his imagination had created. Their fingers brush, and to his surprise, George doesn't flinch away from the contact.

It lasts a second before Clay retracts his hand like he's been burnt, having not expected George to actually feel warm under his touch. That's how dreams worked, right? Nothing really felt real, right? Unless, he was wrong, of course, because George felt pretty damn real under his hand.

"We're in my house," he answers, eyes flickering to the room around him.

He notices quite easily that things are indeed out of order. The photos he had hung of himself and his family are gone, his walls now completely barren. He stares at them, looks for picture frames, looks for his high school certificates, and yet, he finds none of them.

He pulls himself from his bed and stands beside George.

He realizes he's a good few inches taller than George— tall enough that he has to crane his neck down to meet eyes with the brunet. He holds a breath as George turns up to him, eyebrows screwed down in a confused manner.

"Oh," he speaks dumbly, "you're a _lot_ taller than me."

"Really? I didn't notice," he jokes back, pushing against the brunet's shoulder softly.

George chuckles, pushing back against the touch as he turns his head and glances about the room. "I didn't recognize your room, there's like, _nothing_ in here."

He hums in agreement, following George's eyes around the room. It doesn't look like his room at all, it's as if it's been stripped down to just the simple room itself, all of his personal belongings gone. It looks like he'd just move in if anything.

Without much thought, Clay finds himself rounding his bed straight for his bedroom door. He swings the door open and instead of being greeted with the fresh smell of Febreze from the automated air freshener he had, he's greeted with stiff warm air.

George follows behind him silently as he steps out into his hallway.

It's his house, undoubtedly, but all of his personal belongings have been stripped. The walls are bare, the only remains that showed someone may have lived there was the simple recliner at the end of the hallway that opened into the living room. His heart clambers into his throat as he rushes down the hallway and into the living room, which is too barren besides the simple furniture he had.

"Is this why it always echoes in your house?" George questions tauntingly from a good foot behind him. "I thought Sapnap was kidding about your house being empty."

Clay turns on his heel to meet eyes with George, who is standing in the middle of his living room stiffly. From this far away, Clay realizes just how large George's sweatshirt is on him— his left shoulder is slightly exposed, his hands hiding under the sleeves of it.

He looks like a lost child in his grand, yet empty, livingroom.

He tears his eyes away from the figment of his imagination. "This isn't my house," he ends up saying, turning around awkwardly. "No, I mean— it _is_ my house, everything I own is just... gone."

Behind him, George laughs.

He'd heard the same laugh for years through his headset— the same breathy chuckle that would lead into a full belly fit of laughter. While it sounded the same as it did through his headset, he was shocked by the fact it echoed around him.

"What do you mean everything you own is gone?" The brunet barks out through fits of laughter. "Dream, did someone steal all of your belongings, while you were _home."_

While his back is turned to the brunet, Clay can't help the way he scrunches his nose up. No, that wasn't right. No one could have taken his stuff— this was a _dream._ He was still in his bed, asleep safely in his house with Patches curled up at his side, all of his stuff undoubtedly where it should be.

"No, George, no one stole my stuff," he replies bitterly, already a bit fed up with this dream which made absolutely no sense to him. The laughter comes to an abrupt halt— so abrupt it has Clay whipping around wondering if George is still there.

To his surprise, he stares at his empty living room in shock.

"This isn't real."

* * *  
**SAPPY NAPPY**

dude, i just had the weirdest dream <

 _> lol what_ _  
_ _> wtf was ur dream ab man that is has u texting me ab it at 6 am_ _  
_ _> i am but a simple 19 year old college student_ _  
_ _> this is the first time i have ever heard u talking ab dreams LMAO_

yeah that's the issue sap <  
i have never had a dream before that i can remember <

 _> what_ _  
_ _> what do u mean man_

i mean i dont think i have ever had a dream before <  
i remember so vividly what was happening too <  
someone was in my house? <  
like we were in my house but not rlly <  
all my personal stuff was just gone <

 _> fun_ _  
_ _> kinda cool?_

i dont know lol <  
made me feel really <  
unsettled <

 _> LOL PLS DREAM_ _  
_ _> DID U GET POSSESSED BY A DEMON_

dont <  
dont joke like that oh my god <

_> why_  
_> do u think u rlly got possessed_

no??? <  
i dont know <  
its just weird i remember like everything ab the dream <  
and the fact i was in my empty ass house <  
with this literal FACELESS PERSON <  
like i can recall our conversations we had in my dream <  
but i dont remember what they looked like <  
or if they had a name <

 _> thats_ _  
_ _> WACK._ _  
_ _> demon shit man_

* * *

Most of his day was spent in front of his monitor. The moment he'd been shaken awake at six in the morning, hours before he'd normally wake up, he found himself restless as he paced over to his computer. He'd frantically texted Sapnap, trying to come down from the abrupt adrenaline high he felt surging through his body. His limbs felt heavy, practically buzzing uncomfortably with electricity.

Sapnap hadn't slept since he last spoke to him at one. He was tempted to ask to call— just to listen to his voice and calm himself down— but he told himself he was a grown adult who could deal with having an unsettling dream by himself.

Even so, the second Clay texted Sapnap goodnight, he was texting George, asking if he was awake and up to call.

The discord call started not even a minute after he'd hit send on the message.

"You're up early," George had greeted. "Isn't it like six for you? Everything okay?"

At the familiar voice, Clay was slumping back against his chair, taping his bare feet against the hardwood floor of his bedroom to ground himself. "Good morning," he'd responded sleepily, "I woke up a few minutes ago and Sapnap freaked me out so I'm not even going to bother sleeping again."

George hums slowly. It's in that moment that Clay realizes there's a distinct grogines to his friend's voice. "You just waking up, too?"

"Yeah," George grumbles, the sound of his chair squeaking following. "Was thinking about working on the coding for our next video."

"Need help?"

"I mean, if you're offering..."

Hours later, Clay was bidding goodbye to his friend, ignoring the sad tone he held as he clicked the end call button. His mother had come to visit, accompanied by his youngest sister, Terra. They insisted they stay for dinner, which Clay more than welcomed them to stay.

"You look exhausted, Clay," Terra had commented between bites of her steak. "Are you sleeping enough?"

He twirled his fork uneasily between his fingers, his dream from the previous night still prickling at the edges of his thoughts. "Yeah, I am," he replied earnestly, "just had a weird dream last night I guess. Kept me up most of the night after."

He's thrown back into the midst of his dream— turning around on his heel in his empty living room to a faceless person who was laughing behind him. He remembers them standing in the middle of the room, looking small and confused as they spoke to him. He tried so hard to remember who it was— to remember any noticeable facial features— but the moment he went to remember, all his brain gave him was some blurry mess.

His mother hummed from the other side of the table, her head quirked to the side. "Are you having nightmares?"

"Not a nightmare," he spoke, a hint of laughter lacing his voice. "Just a weird dream. Nick and I were talking about it this morning and he really freaked me out, talking about demons and what not."

Clay's mother shook her head, a grin breaking out on her face. "Nick has always loved scaring you, hasn't he?"

He nods, dropping his fork to his plate with a small clank. "Nick still hasn't grown up since we were thirteen," he jokes.

His mother gives a hearty chuckle as she drops her fork to her now empty plate. "How has Nick been anyway? And George, too?"

"They've been good. I was just calling with them all last night. I just got off the phone with George when you guys came over."

"That's good! I'm glad to hear that," his mom smiles, standing abruptly from the table. "I'll do the dishes for you before we go, yeah?"

* * *

This time when Clay wakes up, he's not in his bed. He's sitting up somewhere, warmth pressed against his back, hands sprawled against his bare chest. A sigh escapes his lips as he pushes back against the warmth, craving the way it feels against his back.

"Dream," a voice calls out groggily. "Hey, wake up."

Borderline delirious, Clay peels his eyes open. His hair is brushed in front of his eyes and through golden strands of hair, he blinks up at two dark brown eyes.

Despite the sleep that's embedded deeply in his bones, Clay realizes who he is pressed against. He's sitting at the bottom of his stairs, pressed between George's legs. His hands are hanging on the brunet's knees loosely as George's arms hold him up against his chest.

He can't recall ever being in such an intimate position with someone before— especially _shirtless_ at that.

"Hey," the brunet greets cautiously, pulling his head back and loosening his grip around Clay's chest as he did. "We're in your house again, right?"

It takes Clay all but a moment to realize he's dreaming again. A groan escapes his lips as he goes limp against the brunet behind him— who only huffs awkwardly at the extra weight pressed against his chest. Why did George have to haunt him not only in his waking hours but his sleeping ones as well?

"What are you doing here?" He questions instead, his eyes closed.

"What am I doing here?" George parrots, his hands slipping up to sprawl against his collarbones. He shivers at the warmth of his hands pressed close to his neck. "You're the one in my dream, idiot."

 _We're in a dream_ , Clay thinks bitterly. This wasn't real— just a silly figment of his imagination.

Sure, Clay held his soulmate close to his heart, whoever they were. He wanted to desperately meet them, get to know them, love them in any way he could— but just because he had someone set for him in life didn't mean he didn't think about being with other people before.

He thought about being with George before, many times, in fact.

George was undoubtedly attractive, Clay always knew that. Not only that but he had a unique personality, one that complemented his own perfectly, as if they were two halves of a whole. He'd been stupid to not think about them being a thing at least once, especially with how much both their fans and their friends joked about them being an item.

He never hated the thought of them being together. He _liked_ the idea, actually, but that wasn't something he could easily admit in his world, not when everyone had someone predestined for them.

He never thought too hard about them being together, but every now and then the thoughts would slip into the back of his mind unprompted. They'd just be a fleeting thought, something along the lines of Clay wondering what it'd be like to hug George finally, or wondering how he'd feel pressed against him as they cuddled, or if George's lips would be as warm as he thought they'd be.

Still, even then, wasn't dreaming about him a little too much?

"Get out of my dreams, George," he grumbles tiredly, sinking further down the carpeted step he'd been sitting on. His hands slip from George's knees and to his sides as George's hands crawl up from his collarbones to his neck, and then to cupping his jaw as he cranes his neck back comfortably.

"No thanks," the brunet responds snarkily. "I like it here, with you."

A tired _giggle_ escapes Clay. George was never this forward, it just wasn't how he was. He could hear it distinctively when they called, the hesitation he held. "You're just a figment of my imagination. This is what, lucid dreaming? When you're aware you're dreaming?"

George's fingers trace his jaw slowly, the warmth from his hands radiating to Clay's cheeks. Clay can't help but crane his neck back even more, reveling in the warmth of the brunet's hands against his skin.

"I dreamt about you last night," George says suddenly, no particularly emotion lacing his voice as he did, "dreamt I was with you in your empty ass house. I woke up in your living room just now, you were there too, knocked out, so I brought you over here with me."

"Had the same dream," Clay grumbles quietly, tilting his head so that his cheek rested against George's thigh. "Sapnap said I was being possessed by some demon."

The fingers that were once cupping his face fall and he can't help but whine at the loss.

"Is that why you woke up all freaked out this morning?"

Clay's eyes open suddenly. George is looking down at him cautiously, almost like he was scared. His eyebrows were pulled upward, his lips parted just enough for a sliver of white teeth to poke through.

"Yeah," he replies breathlessly. "Yeah, that's exactly why I woke up all freaked out. I couldn't remember who was in the dream with me when I woke up— but— but I remember now."

Still looking alarmed, George leans in and captures the sides of his face carefully once more.

"The same thing happened to me," he admits in a whisper as if they weren't the only two sitting on the staircase. "I woke up, scared. I never had a dream before, but when I woke up, I remembered _everything_ except the fact that it was you here with me."

George brushes the pads of his thumbs over his cheekbones slowly, imprinting small figure-eight motions into his skin.

"That's weird," Clay finds himself admitting, finding it hard to keep his eyes open.

"Yeah, it is," George agrees from above him.

There's a moment of silence between them— a moment where the world pauses as they stare longingly into one another's eyes.

Slowly, George drags a hand from his cheek to his forehead, pushing away the strands of hair that had fallen from his messy ponytail. Even through half-lidded eyes, he catches the way George closes his eyes and leans forward. He can feel the gentle press of lips against his forehead, both warm and soft, as he jolts awake in his bed.

A broken gasp leaves him as he slaps a hand across his chest.

Even as he sits with his sheets wrapped around him, threatening to strangle him in the darkness of his room, Clay can feel the phantom of hands pressed against him.

Fingertips pressed gently against his pecks— palms, pressed heavily and greedily against his collar bones— fingernails dragging up against his neck, tracing his jugular— hands cupping his cheeks, pulling him upward— and then there's nothing but a faceless figure— a ghost of a person.

He throws himself back into his bed and reaches underneath his pillow to grab his phone, only to be surprised when his phone shines brightly in his face that it's two in the morning. He'd tried falling asleep only an hour ago, having been fighting a nasty episode of insomnia. Of course, he should have expected to be shaken awake. On nights like these where his insomnia became so bad, he'd wake up several times over and over again until the sun was too bright to fall back to sleep.

He's tempted to text someone, anyone in fact— but before he can even think about who he should reach out to a message notification pops up on his phone.

* * *  
**GEORGE, BUT FOUND <3**

 _> Hey, Clay?_ _  
_ _> are you awake?_

that is so weird <  
just woke up <  
u okay? <

 _> i'm fine_ _  
_ _> sorry, just having trouble sleeping but it's almost seven in the morning and the suns already up_

do u want to call or something? <  
would that help? <

 _> i don't know_ _  
_ _> sorry i'm never like this lol_ _  
_ _> just feeling really anxious for some reason_

no, ur good, don't apologize <  
call me if u want? <

 _> you sure?_ _  
_ _> i don't want to bother you_

wouldn't be bothering me <  
was about to message someone to call anyway <

_> ok  
> give me a second_

* * *

Not to his surprise, George is facetiming him several minutes later. It's not the first time they'd slept called together, by all means. During the summer when quarantine had been more prominent, the two of them had been practically sleep calling every night. Maybe that's when his feelings for the brunet started blooming, but that was a secret for him to keep.

As life started becoming a little more normal and the two of them started drifting in schedules again, their sleep calls became less and less— rare, even.

Nevertheless, Clay picked up the facetime call tiredly and dropped his phone onto the pillow beside him. It took a moment for the call to connect, but a few seconds later Clay's phone was lighting up. He peeled an eye open, catching a quick glimpse of George as he swayed in his phone's vision, clearly slipping back into his bed even though his room had been entirely lit up with morning sun.

"Hey," he greets tiredly, yawning a second after.

The second George is situated back in bed, the sheets pulled up over his shoulders, he is holding the phone in front of his face with a lazy grin. "Hello to you too, black screen."

With a quiet groan of protest, Clay turned his phone onto its side so that the camera could capture his face. His hair was a mess, having already been tugged from its ponytail. He could see the smallest glimpse of his bare shoulder and collarbone in the corner of the screen, but he didn't really care.

"Better?" He chuckled lethargically, his smile only growing when he saw George's grin break out into a full toothy smile.

"Yeah, much," the brunet replied. "What're you doing awake anyway right now?"

"Trouble sleeping, you know, the usual," he responds, stretching an arm behind his head with a groan. "Pretty sure I forgot to take my melatonin tonight."

George clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "Don't you have timers set for that?"

"I turned them off, found it useless with how all over the place my sleeping schedule is becoming. Sometimes I'll remember to take it, others I just forget."

"Shouldn't you go and take some now, then?"

Clay shrugged, dropping his phone onto his pillow as he folded his hands over his eyes. "I might fall back to sleep without it," he says truthfully, feeling how heavy his limbs had become. "I don't want to end up sleeping until two in the afternoon or something."

"Plans today?"

He hums in approval. "Thinking about joining in on some lore streams, unlike _you._ "

George laughs despite the joke obviously meant to hurt him. "Low blow, low blow."

"I'm just kidding, I know you're not into _that_ kind of roleplay."

Again, George laughs and he can't help but chuckle to himself quietly.

"That is disgusting, Dream. Stop it."

They fall into easy conversation after that, both tired and groggy. At some point, Clay finds himself flipping over, dropping his face into his pillow as he listened to George mumble about a conversation he had with Quackity the other day. It only takes until three in the morning, but eventually, Clay finds himself drifting back into a peaceful slumber as George's soft voice coaxes him to sleep.

* * *

Weeks go by and every night, Clay dreams. He dreams of a faceless man who is much more forward than he is— a man who finds no fear in lacing their fingers together or cupping his cheeks with a gentle fire in his eyes.

Each morning, Clay is left yearning for the touch of the ghost haunting his dreams.

He wonders if this was normal, if this was how dreaming worked. He remembered every bit of his dreams, from the last words of their conversation to the way they felt wrapped in each other's embrace, and yet, he couldn't put a face nor a name to the person.

Was this some cruel joke his mind was playing on him? Had he been so lonely that his mind had to make up some figurative person to keep him company in his dreams?

Surely, that couldn't be right— especially with the fact that every time he entered his state of dreaming, he remembered exactly who had always been in his dreams.

Was this George's way of haunting him?

* * *

This time, they're standing in his kitchen which is bare of all the necessities that make a kitchen in the first place. The only things that stand out are the marble countertops and the smooth cabinets that loomed over them, empty of any possessions.

"It's so empty in here," the brunet comments as if he hadn't said the same comment before every single night for the past month.

"Really, I didn't know? Maybe if we dreamed in your house it'd be a different story, but I don't even know what your house looks like."

Confusion lingers in the brunet's face as he places a hand over the cool marble of the island standing between them.

"I don't know what your house looks like either, besides your bedroom," he admits quietly, dragging his fingertips across the obscure shapes pushed into the marble. "I don't understand why I always end up here with you every night and then forget about it in the morning."

A rough chuckle escapes Clay, something between sarcastic and fed up. He raises his shoulders defensively, his eyes dropping to the counter solemnly.

"This isn't real," he points out, dropping his hand to the counter, "you're not real, so why do you act it?"

Across the counter, George shrugs. He pushes his hand across the counter until their fingertips meet.

"I don't know," he responds, uncertainty lacing his voice, his entire demeanor shifting as he slumped against the counter. Testingly, George placed his palm on top of his own hand and squeezed it. "I feel real. _You_ feel real."

"It's not real, it's just a dream," Clay says, and he's entirely unsure if the statement was meant for the figment of his imagination or himself.

"What makes you think this isn't real somehow?"

Rolling his eyes, Clay pulls his hand out from under George's. They meet eyes and truthfully, Clay doesn't miss the hint of fear that flashes across the brunet's face.

"You don't like me, not in the way I like you," he responds as if it were the most obvious thing on earth. He clutches his hand against his chest protectively, stepping away from the counter. "You'd never be this forward in real life."

George's eyebrows screw downward. "You don't know that," he says solemnly, pushing against the counter as if he were chasing after him. "You haven't even met me yet."

"You're right, I haven't, but I have known you for a while now and you can't even tell me that you love me without getting all _weird_ about it— even if it's just jokes."

"Some things are just easier to say in person, I guess."

The brunet rests his elbow onto the counter and outstretches his hand toward him with a certain timidness, as if he were reaching out to a wild animal. With a roll of his eyes, Clay was dropping his hand into George's, letting the older of the two trap his hand in both of his.

Seriousness wipes over George's face.

"I love you, _Clay_ ," he says with confidence. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't stumble over his words or look away. Instead, he looks up to Clay with a fire of determination lacing his eyes. His cheeks are tinted, his eyebrows brought down in concentration, his lips parted in a smile— it's all too much, and it leaves Clay breathless.

A nervous laugh breaks the silence.

"Sure you do," he says awkwardly, already tugging his hand free from George's grip.

"But I do," George insists, dropping his hand to the marble counter. "I really do."

"You're only saying this to me because it's what I wish— you're not real."

"I _am_ real."

"You're not," Clay says sadly, his voice wavering. He's cracking at the seams, his eyes watering as he looks over to George who is desperately bent over the counter. "This is just a dream."

* * *  
**SAPPY NAPPY**

i'm starting to get freaked out <  
ngl <

_> you good?_

i guess <  
i keep having those weird dreams dude <

 _> that started like a month ago_ _  
_ _> u sure ur not getting haunted or some shit?_

pretty sure <  
i havent done anything to piss off any ghosts <

_> yet_

yet. _ <_

_> so like  
> these dreams, u remember everything BUT who else is in ur dream  
> right_

yep <

_> weird  
> if it keeps up  
> maybe we should talk ab it with others_

idk <  
maybe im just weird <

_> or maybe its something_

something? <

_> something._

what does that entail <

_> idk  
> just think its weird  
> wouldnt have anything to do with ur insomnia right?_

def not man <  
idk if it keeps happening <  
i'll talk to someone about it <

* * *

For the second time that week, Clay finds himself in his little dreamland, George pushed against his side as they lean against the kitchen counter they'd fought over the previous night.

Again, George says, "why don't you believe me when I say this is real?"

"Because," Clay answers simply, pushing George with his elbow, "this is a dream. Dreams aren't real."

There's a beat of silence that has Clay turning his head, craning his neck down so he could see George. His arms were wrapped around his midsection, his head tilted up so that their eyes could meet. This close, there was no way he could mistake the blush creeping up the brunet's cheeks.

"Not real?" He echoes, looking confused. "This isn't real."

"Yeah. It's not real."

Breathlessly, George is swaying forward, his lips parting with a smile. "If this isn't real, then, can I kiss you?"

Clay goes to push further back against the countertop, both shocked and scared by the forwardness his imagination sprung to him— but George follows, his hands slipping from his back to either side of the counter between his arms.

"What?" He ends up asking instead of replying, his heart clambering up to his throat.

Why did his imagination like hurting him like this?

A pout grows on the brunet's face. For a moment, George licks his lips, tugging his bottom lip under his teeth worriedly. "Don't make me repeat myself, _please,"_ he says, desperately under a breath.

 _This is a dream,_ Clay reminds himself. _This isn't real, the real George would never figure out. It wouldn't be selfish. It's not like I hadn't thought about this in my waking hours anyway._

So, Clay doesn't make him repeat himself. He brings his hands gingerly to either side of George's face and pulls him in without hesitation instead, letting their lips lock together in one messy motion.

He ignores the desperate noise that leaves the back of his throat as he melts against his counter, allowing George to step in closer.

This wasn't real, after all.

* * *

Another month goes by and each night, Clay finds himself in his dreamland with George. During his waking hours where his memories are wiped of who his mysterious Romeo is, he wonders if he's going crazy— but the second he slips back under, pulled back into his dreamland by George's soft and welcoming hands, he finds himself forgetting about the fact that none of it was real, and that he never really had George in the first place.

Each night, they're still in Clay's house.

Their nights always start off the same; George, insisting that it was all real somehow while he denied it— George, ultimately giving in and deciding that none of it was real too— Clay, giving in to the fact it was all a figment of his imagination and just letting everything play out— It always started like that, and then, with the perception that it was all a dream, one of them would become brave.

George, for the most part, made the first moves.

Night after night, he found places to land quick kisses on Clay— on the lips, on his cheekbones, against his neck, under his ear, against his collarbones— his knuckles, his palms— any skin he could reach, he'd find a way to kiss.

Sometimes it happened against the kitchen counter, others on the singular couch in the living room— sometimes in Clay's bed.

Nothing went further than quick kisses and curious hands.

Other times, Clay would make the first move. It was nothing as brave as how George would start things— George, after all, showed his feelings through actions while Clay showed his emotions through words.

Night and night again, he'd spill his curious thoughts, the dirty truths he hid under the surface. He told George he liked the way his body felt against his— that he liked the way his lips felt pressed against his— that his morning voice was probably the sweetest thing he could have ever had the chance to hear.

It seemed simple enough like it was all just a dream. That's all they were, right? Just simple dreams. Dreams didn't affect you in your waking hours.

At least, that is what Clay thought at first.

During his conscious hours, he found himself both anxious and confused. He remembered the conversations he had with his faceless dream 'lover'— remembered the way they felt against him— it seemed so familiar, so _real._

He didn't notice how big of a problem it was until he found himself walking down his halls alone, his fingers tracing the walls as he walked. He was expecting a hand to grab his, or maybe for arms to embrace him from behind. He was alone, but in his dreams, he walked these halls with someone who radiated enough energy to become the sun.

Why were they haunting him? The mysterious person from his dreams, who he _knew_ he should have known— why were they everywhere and nowhere all at once?

It got worse from there.

Sometimes, he'd wake up alone wrapped in his sheets, tears pricking in his eyes. Was it from sadness? Frustration? Why was he alone when in the night, when he shut his eyes and succumbed to sleep, someone was there with him, keeping him warm with peppermint kisses? Why was it fair that in his waking hours he sat up alone in his bed, cold and confused?

Sometimes, he'd step into his living room, expecting someone to be there waiting for him with opening eyes. Waiting on his couch for him with needy and grabby hands, waiting to pull him down into a hug. He couldn't help how disappointed he felt when he walked down the hall only to be greeted with nothingness.

Sometimes, he'd step into his kitchen, expecting to see someone sitting on top of the marble island with their feet kicking out. He'd expect for them to jump down the moment they realized he'd entered the room— expected to be pulled into a needy and heated kiss— but every time, he was alone.

Why was he behind haunted?

They had walked the hallways together, hand in hand sharing quiet whispers of laughter as George asked for the umpteenth time, _"why is your house so bare? We have nothing to do anymore. No board games? Cards? Computer? You have the desk and chair and yet your computer is gone, man!"_

They had cuddled up in his bed, pressed together under the sheets as Clay held George's hands against his chest, tracing his fingers slowly. _"Are your hands actually this soft in person?"_

_"How would I know? I'd like to say yes, but it would feel weird doing so, especially if this is a dream."_

They had wrestled on the empty floor of the living room in boredom— hands pushing and pulling at one another as they rolled out onto the carpet through haggard breaths. At some point, Clay had given up, giving the advantage to George who seized the opportunity without hesitation— digging his palms into the blond's wrists as he pinned him to the carpet.

_"I never expected you to be so strong, Georgie."_

_"You always expect the least from me, don't you?"_

They had stood at the bottom of the stairs, playing a game of rock paper and scissors to pass time. Whoever won got to take another step up the staircase, making whoever made it to the second floor the winner. It was a mundane game— comforting all the same. Would Clay ever have something like _that_ in his real life?

_"You always pick rock when you get scared, Dream."_

_"Oh really? How'd you figure that out?"_

_"You're so easy to read. I swear I could always tell you I know what you're thinking."_

They had sat with their backs against Clay's bed, their thighs pressed together as they laced their fingers. Timidly, Clay had asked, _"you know, I think about you all the time. Even when we're not here."_

With the same mirth and a light squeeze of the hand, George replied, " _I think about you, too. I want you all the time."_

They'd kissed one another against the kitchen counter, George's hands sprawled against his hips just under the hem of Clay's shirt. The second they'd pulled away, George had dragged his fingernails lightly up his shirt— drawing a broken gasp and a laugh from Clay.

_"You're ticklish?"_

_"No_ —"

_"Oh, you totally are! C'mere, Dream!"_

They'd sat together on the old recliner in the hallway, the two of them squeezing into the seat side by side. Originally, they had raced from the end of the hall to see who could get there faster— and arguably, Clay could have said have won by two seconds, but he truly didn't care when George clambered up onto the recliner right after him, laughing with obscurity.

They'd laid on the couch of the living room, George's head pressed against his shoulder, his hands pressed against his abdomen as he kissed his neck slowly.

_"You know I love you, right?"_

_"I know. You remind me every night."_

Despite all those little moments they'd been building together, Clay still couldn't help the way his heart raced when they added to the collection. Every moment he spent with George in their dreamland was a moment he cherished.

Tonight, they were standing in front of the window in the kitchen. Clay's arm was wrapped around George's shoulders as they watched the sun dip down behind the horizon line.

Tonight, Clay was feeling sentimental and broken. Loneliness had been plaguing him in every single one of his waking hours and he didn't know how to cope with it. Carefully, he admitted, "I hate watching you disappear." His voice was timid as he pulled George's closer to his side. "Every morning, all that's left is the ghost of you."

He could feel the brunet nod against his chest.

"I know, I know how you feel," he answers carefully, his hands moving up to clutch the fabric of his green sweatshirt. The moment Clay had looked down, he could see George's hands trembling.

"I hate leaving."

* * *

He's anxious when he wakes up, his hands shaking as he felt around his messy sheets for his phone. The second he found it, wrapped up in the blankets by his foot, he was opening it and pulling up Sapnap's contact.

It was eleven in the morning, _he should be awake_ , he thought as he dialed his number and brought the phone to his ear, all while his knees shook under his blankets.

Timid hands— a head of chestnut hair— the smell of citrus— the last words they'd spoken to him sounding broken. Why him? Why did he have to live through these dreams? Why did they feel so real? Why couldn't he remember the name of the person who'd clutched onto the front of his hoodie like it was the only still thing in their spinning Earth?

It took two rings for the phone to be picked up.

"Hey Dream!" Sapnap's happy voice greeted. "What's up, man?"

"Are you busy right now?"

There's hesitation— a pause.

"Hold on, I just defend on my discord call," Sapnap informs him, "I was calling Quackity and Karl. Everything okay, man?"

"No," he answers truthfully, slowly lowering himself back onto his mattress. "They won't stop."

"What won't?"

"The _dreams_ ," he says desperately, his voice cracking. He wasn't going to cry— no, no he was not going to cry. He was twenty-fucking-one years old, there was _no_ way he was going to cry about some stupid dreams he kept having. "They won't stop."

"The dreams," Sapnap parrots quietly. "Are they really that bad? I know you mentioned they just are weird but like, what exactly is happening in them that it has you this shaken up?"

He clams his eyes shut, holding the phone closer to his ear as he did. "They're not nightmares or anything— definitely the furthest thing from that," he explains softly. "I don't understand why. Every single night I dream of them— and I know they're in love with me, but God, I don't even know who they are."

He sounds crazy.

"What?" Sapnap's voice suddenly goes serious. "Explain more."

A deep breath escapes him. "I keep having dreams about that person— but the second I wake up it's like I don't remember who they are. I couldn't tell you their name or what they look like, but I could tell you everything they said to me. I could tell you what they're like. They tell me every damn night that it's all real— but it's not—"

He's hyperventilating, hiccuping as he gasps for air.

"Clay, deep breaths."

He listens. His chest heaves. His hands shake. He's still hiccuping over the stiff air around him.

"It's not real— so _why_ are they haunting me?"

He hears Sapnap type away at his computer for a few moments, viciously.

"You— you still don't know what your soulmate connection is, right?"

His phone slips from his fingers.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. _Oh my God._

"Sharing dreams with your soulmate— it's a one out of ten million soul mark, but it's a thing," Sapnap's voice rings from his phone's speaker. "I'm pretty sure one of the kids in my college lecture last year had a soul mark like that."

"Oh," he says out loud, his eyes still shut, as if he were anticipating impact. "Oh my God."

"This is good news then, right?" Sapnap questions hesitantly. "You don't sound too happy."

He doesn't know how to reply. Should he be happy? Had he really found his soul mark? Had he really talked to his soulmate? Had he actually kissed them already?

Something dark festered in his chest.

"I'm... I'm happy," he settles with, despite the heavy feeling in his chest.

"That's good," says Sapnap slowly, as if he doesn't believe him. "Want to hop on our call? George just joined."

_George._

He sits up in his bed, his hands still trembling.

"Yeah, give me a few minutes," he says before promptly hanging up.

He sits in his bed, eyes tracing the blinds of his window.

Were these dreams really _real?_ Was this his way of connecting with his soulmate? If it was, it was truly cruel. He couldn't even remember them. How was he supposed to find them in real life without any personal information about them beside the fact they smelled heavily of citrus and lavender?

And then there was the soul-crushing fact that he'd been falling head over heels for the British boy he'd met as a young teenager. The same man who practically coaxed him to sleep every night over the phone on facetime.

On one hand, in his dreamscape, his soulmate clearly already loved him—

While in the real world, George couldn't even jokingly say he loved him, even as a friend.

Where did that lead him to stand?

* * *

Clay never ended up joining their call that day. He sent his friends a quick apology text, giving them something along the lines that he wasn't feeling too hot and wanted to rest. The majority of his group had taken his text without any question, while both Sapnap and George texted him privately asking if he was okay.

He told Sapnap he needed some time to take things in. He told George he just wasn't feeling good. After that, he didn't speak to either of them again that day.

Instead, he busied himself in front of his computer, searching up various soulmate and soulmark related questions.

_"Shared dream soulmark"_

_"Memory loss from shared dream soulmark?"_

_"Why can't I remember my soulmate from my dreams?"_

All his searches ended with nothing useful.

He didn't get any comfort.

Clay doesn't sleep that night. He spends the hours from one to six cleaning out his kitchen, his hands shaking, sweat dripping down his forehead as he worked. Now, he wasn't necessarily scared to face his soulmate— if that's who they were. It was just one of those nights where he could not, for the love of himself, fall asleep.

He'd been halfway finished stacking a good amount of pots when his phone rang from the marble countertop— the same countertop his soulmate would push him up against in his dreams and kiss him on—

He picks up the phone and answers without checking the caller id.

"Hello?"

He tucks his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he settles back onto the kitchen floor.

"Hey," George's voice greets him through the phone, because of course, it'd be him. "Are you feeling better? Why're you up?"

"Why're you calling me if you thought I'd be asleep?"

"I don't know," he replies, his voice heavy and thick with sleepiness, "I guess part of me thought you'd be awake. What're you doing?"

He drops the last pot he had into its respected pile. "Cleaning my kitchen. I couldn't sleep."

"Why didn't you call earlier, then?"

He hesitates.

Why did George care so much?

"I don't know," he answers, his fingers tracing the cold copper of the pot's rim. "I didn't want to bother you."

"You wouldn't have been bothering me. You never bother me," the brunet replies all too quickly. "Can I facetime you?"

A moment later Clay is propping his phone up against the floor and the cabinets, his socked feet pressed against the home button as George's face lit up on his screen. He was sitting at his desk, a hood pulled over his head as he sunk into his chair.

For a second, neither of them speak. Something washes over George's face— something akin to recognition.

"Have I seen your kitchen before?"

"No, I don't think so? Not since I've moved in," he replies quietly, turning his head toward the marble counter behind him. "Why do you ask?"

"I— I don't know, actually. It just looked wicked familiar. Is everyone's kitchens in the States the same?"

"Most certainly not, but I suppose a lot of people have marble counters."

George just nods, tugging at the strings of his hoodie as he did. "Sorry, that was probably a weird question. Anyway, are you feeling any better? I know you said you weren't feeling good earlier and you kind of left my other messages on delivered."

A shy and timid smile forms on his face as he runs a hand through the stray strands of hair that have stuck to his forehead.

"Sorry," he says, turning his eyes upward to his ceiling. "I was stressing myself out today. You know how I get."

* * *

It was eight for him, one for George when he decided that it was necessary he slept. They had been in a discord call practically all day, George watching as he cleaned his kitchen, and then Clay watching as George tidied up his room. It was simple and mundane— comforting enough to have Clay forgetting all about his soulmate dilemma.

The second his head hits his pillow, George grumbling a quiet goodnight over his phone, he's out like a light.

A blink of an eye later, he was waking up on his living room floor, an all too familiar boy sitting across from him with his hands wrapped around himself protectively.

Everything hits him suddenly— all the previous dreams he had— all the quiet moments he had with George in his waking hours— his conversation with Sapnap— the fact that Clay had just fallen asleep on the phone with George, and now they were here, sitting in his living room looking at one another longingly.

George scrambles up to his knees, extending his hands out toward him, waiting for a hug— but Clay doesn't move.

For once, Clay isn't scared, and this time, it's not George saying it, but himself. "This is real."

The heaviness of the situation finally hits him. George's hands drop limply into his lap, confusion washing over him like a wave.

"I'm dreaming," the brunet laughs bitterly like he doesn't believe him. "What do you mean this is real?"

He's mimicking George's pose, pushing up onto his knees as he reaches across the floor to drop his hand on the brunet's knee.

"We're having shared dreams," he admits, confused and scared— but brave all the same. He was brave for saying it— brave for feeling like somehow, he knew George could accept the fact— "We're _soulmates_."

George doesn't look as confident as he normally would.

 _Uncertainty_ , he thinks, as he watches George's eyes fall to the hand on his knee. _Timidness_ , he sees, as George pulls his hand into both of his gingerly.

"We're soulmates?" He questions carefully, his eyes trailing up but a moment later. "That makes sense."

"Makes sense?"

The blond's hand is squeezed softly. Once, twice— and then a third time.

"Makes sense," affirms George, "I always hoped it'd be you— selfishly."

A bubble of laughter breaks the growing tension in the room.

"This doesn't scare you?"

"Why would it scare me? You're not scary, Dream."

Clay laughs heavily— but then sadly.

"Why can't I ever remember it's you when I wake up?"

George frowns, pulling him close by his hand until Clay dropped his head into the brunet's lap. Warm hands carded through his hair, pulling it gingerly out of its ponytail. He pulls the hair elastic around his slim wrist, hiding it under the sleeve of his crewneck.

"I don't know," George admits, his voice wet. "But— we can figure it out, right? The gods wouldn't have given us some impossible soul mark."

"Doubtful."

A kiss is pressed against his temple, and then another on his forehead. This was really George? He had the capability of loving like _this?_

"You love being such a pessimist, don't you?"

"Normally, you're the one who's a pessimist," Clay bites back, letting his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he closes his eyes.

There's a quiet pause, and then George is leaning down, pressing his chin onto Clay's head. "I like being optimistic when it comes to you," the brunet admits. "How did you find out these weren't just some regular dreams?"

Clay shrugs, balling his hands up close to his chest. "I've been telling Sapnap about them, he obviously caught on that they weren't normal dreams. I called him the other morning and he did a quick google search and broke the news rather quickly."

"Of course, you talk to Sapnap about this stuff but not me?" George says sadly, running his fingers against Clay's scalp. "Maybe if you spoke to me about this stuff, we would have figured out long ago we were soulmates."

A bitter and dry laugh leaves Clay's chapped lips.

"I don't think I ever could. You never talk about soulmates, so I've always thought it was a forbidden topic. Besides, why would I have wanted to tell my real-life crush about my dream lover?"

"Your _dream lover?_ "

George laughs, full-heartedly. His hands halt in the blond's hair as his knees bounce. He pulls his head up, falling down into the carpet with a heaving chest.

"You think we're lovers, Dream?"

"That's what we are— right? I'm not reading this wrong—"

"No, you're not," George replies, sitting up abruptly. "I promise."

A smile grows on Clay's face as he sits up, and with greedy hands, he surges up and captures George's face and kisses him— kisses him until he's brought back into his waking world— kisses him until the phantom touch of his lips is forever engraved against his.


	2. But At Least I Get To Have You

Clay woke up the following morning, cold but dripping in sweat. His hair was stuck to his cheeks, the sheets of his bed wrapped around his ankles. He'd groaned, running a hand through the tangled waves of his hair.

Two things registered in his head at that moment.

One, the hair tie his hair had been in the previous night was gone, and two, he was almost _certain_ his soulmate had called him Dream. With his heart in his throat, he'd turned in his bed, searching his pillows for his hair tie uneasily as his hands shook.

Some of the conversations with his _soulmate_ were hazy in his mind and he couldn't understand why. It happened sometimes, bits and pieces of their conversations filled with static in his memory, as if they were never there in the first place.

He'd never remembered his soulmate saying his name— never remembered calling his soulmate by their name. He'd never remember the way his soulmate sounded, but somehow, he knew they drew out their vowels. Their conversations were engraved into his brain like a transcript, but the way their voice sounded seemed foreign, drowned out by water in his ears.

But somehow, tonight, he remembered something important.

He remembered soft lips curling into a petite smile, white teeth poking out between them— he remembered dark hair framing their cheekbones as they tilted their head up— he remembered the way one of their eyebrows had raised.

He heard the first words clear as day. "You think we're lovers?" And then, static.

But he remembered the way their lips moved— he didn't remember what they said after that, but he remembered the way they moved, slowly and thoughtfully.

He wasn't the best with lip-reading, but he was sure he saw it.

_"Dream?"_

As his hands clung against his pillows, unable to find his hair tie from the previous night, he felt tears prickle at his eyes, ones of frustration.

His soulmate called him Dream, didn't they?

* * *

He wasn't in a good mood particularly, but he sucked it up as he took part in Karl's stream. Sapnap, Karl, George, Bad, and he were chilling on the SMP after having played a jackbox game on Quackity's stream. This stream was more on the chill side— a calm down stream to the night as they gathered materials for Karl's new build idea he had.

He'd stayed on the quiet side for most of the night, nerves prickling at his skin.

He'd texted Sapnap after he had fully woken up to vent about his previous night's dream. Sapnap, being the friend he is, had joked around and said his soulmate was probably a fan of his, to which Clay almost cried about— _almost_.

His soulmate being a fan of his wasn't _bad_. Sure, not only it would make things awkward but it would also make it harder to find out who the hell they were.

Safe to say; Clay had been in a sour mood thinking about his soulmate and the lack of knowledge he held on them, but he tried drowning out those feelings by surrounding himself with his friends.

They had been standing in a flower biome for a good part of an hour now as Karl instructed Bad on what ideas he had for builds. He'd stayed quiet, fiddling with his W and S keys as he listened half-heartedly.

"Let's use spruce wood."

"You want to use spruce wood with birch accents? That's a little weird but okay!"

"Wait, do you think they clash too much?"

"A little bit! Since we're in a flower biome, we could use some mushroom blocks instead?"

Clay wasn't a builder. He focused more on the PVP aspects of the game rather than the aesthetics, and that was okay! He'd decided to help his friends by gathering the recourses they asked for and honestly, that was good enough for him.

He'd watched as Karl's character spun in the field, his attention settling on Bad, leaving his back toward his character as he jumped around aimlessly.

"What do you guys think? Which blocks should we use?"

In front of him, Karl placed a couple of different blocks in three rows. The first row was spruce logs, spruce slaps, and birch slabs. The second row was spruce logs, dark oak slabs, and red mushroom blocks. The final row had dark oak logs, spruce slabs, and red mushroom blocks.

"The dark oak logs and spruce look good together," he found himself responding, his voice flat. It didn't hold the normal spunk it did when he joined streams— and certainly, the people in Karl's chat were noticing.

Having his friend's stream pulled up on his second monitor, he watched as chat flew by.

_"Is it just me or does Dream sound sad?"_

_"He sounds really tired to me."_

_"Dream, are you okay? :("_

_"Dream, get some rest! Don't push yourself to be on the streams! <3"_

A hesitant smile grew on his face as he heard his friends responding.

"I agree with Dream, the last one!" Sapnap spoke.

"Yeah, I like the last one too."

Karl's character spat out the corresponding blocks to Bad a moment later. "Okay Bad, do your _thang."_

As the builders ran off into the field to begin their new build, that left Dream with Sapnap, Quackity, and George hanging around him, all jumping around the field in similar ways.

"Hey, Dream, you going to bed soon?" Sapnap had questioned randomly— but Clay could read his friend all too well. He was giving him a way to escape from the stream for the night.

He shrugged despite the fact no one could see him. "Probably in a bit, why?"

"Just wondering man, you sound exhausted."

He hummed in response. "Yeah, I guess I'm tired," he said, pulling his hands from his keyboard. His character came to a halt, his head tilted toward the grass under him. He settled into his chair, letting his neck press against the headpiece of his chair as his elbows rested against the armrests.

A moment later, feet came to rest just in his view.

_GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: you actually heading to bed?_ _  
_ _GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: are you ok_

Despite the fact he'd already pulled away from his keyboard and settled into his chair comfortably, Clay was pulling himself back up, his hands back on the keyboard in reflux time. There was always _something_ about George that had him acting before thinking.

_You whisper to GeorgeNotFound: yeah probably_ _  
_ _You whisper to GeorgeNotFound: restless day_

_GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: wanna dip and call?_

_You whisper to GeorgeNotFound: scandals_ _  
_ _You whisper to GeorgeNotFound: think the fans may think its weird we dip at the same time_

_GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: ok fine_ _  
_ _GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: ill wait a few and then leave and call you_ _  
_ _GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: is that ok_

_You whisper to GeorgeNotFound: yeh weirdo_

He hangs around for a little bit longer despite the itch under his skin to leave— to hid and wallow in the _pain_ and _loneliness_ his soulmate has made him feel. He knew that probably wasn't healthy and that it definitely wouldn't help the way he'd been feeling today, but nevertheless, the thought stayed prominent in his head.

Tiredly he thought he wouldn't be alone when he left the stream, for George would find a way to accompany him like he always did.

It isn't until Karl and Bad start their build that he finds himself pulling his knees up into his chair and saying, "hey, I think I'm going to head off for the night, I can't keep my eyes open."

Despite the blatant lie, a forced laugh leaves him.

"Good night, Dreamie! I _love you_!" Sapnap jokes.

A more genuine laugh leaves him now. "Love you too, Sapnap. Good night guys! Love you all!"

An assortment of goodbyes and _'I love you too's_ are thrown his way until George simply says, "good night Dream."

Disappointment lingers in his chest.

"What, no I love you too?"

Their friends chuckle, but George refuses to elaborate. "I said _good night Dream."_

No 'I love you too' is said, but instead, a blue flower is dropped into his inventory. It's enough to have Dream log off with a pitiful smile. The moment he leaves the discord call and shuts down Minecraft, he pulls up Karl's stream onto his main monitor and hugs his knees against his chest, the smile dropping as fast as it came.

Sadly, he thinks about previous streams.

_"George, just say you love me!"_

_"Dream— I'm trying to— I just—"_

_"C'mon George, I love you, why don't you love me."_

_"Dream, stop it."_

As his fingers traced the seaming of his sweatpants, he thought bitterly, he should just stick to loving his soulmate.

* * *

It isn't until twenty or so long minutes later that Clay gets a call from George. Despite the fact he's already curled himself up in his bed, sheets pulled over his head, he answers the facetime call in the safety of the darkness surrounding him, pretending the sour feeling that had been budding in his chest had dissipated by now.

"Sorry that took so long," the Brit greets immediately, "Sapnap was being a pain and wouldn't let me leave without giving him all the supplies I had. You know how he gets."

He only hums in agreement, already swiping out of the facetime screen to open up Twitter instead. He can hear George moving about his room in the background, pushing in his chair and turning his set up off for the night.

"Are you heading to bed, Dream?"

Still scrolling through his timeline, he sighed. He knew George didn't owe him anything— he didn't have to say he loved him back, even if it was platonically— but it was hard to pretend it didn't bother him when the brunet did _everything_ in his power to avoid saying he even cared about him. He knew deep down inside George cared— he wouldn't be calling if he didn't. He wouldn't be staying up until ungodly hours at night just to talk to him if he didn't.

It was selfish for him to be upset with his friend and he _knew_ that. He knew, despite the fact George refused to ever admit it outloud, that he cared deeply for him. He showed it through his actions rather than his words. He showed it through the ten plus hours calls they had— the nightly sleep-over calls they'd have— the quietly asked _'are you okay? everything good?'s_ — the fact that he had Clay's ringtone set to the same one he used for his alarm.

He cared— he showed it well enough— the difference was Clay liked having the _affirmation_. He loved _hearing_ that people cared about him. He loved it when his friends said they loved him— loved it a bit more that in very weak moments, George would _sometimes_ say it back.

"Yeah, in a minute," he answered, his voice quiet, stripped of emotion.

It had taken one breath for George to pick up the shift in his voice.

"Hey," he'd said cautiously, "is something wrong? You sound upset."

As if it would help, Clay clamped his eyes shut, taking in a broken breath as he dropped his phone to his mattress. "No," he lied, turning his back to his phone, "just tired."

He didn't need to upset George tonight over something so stupid. He knew it would only start a fight.

"I— are you sure?"

With the heels of his hands digging into his closed eyelids, he nodded despite the fact George couldn't see him. "I'm sure," he affirmed, even though he didn't mean it. "Good night George—" _hesitation— hands digging in harsher into the apples his cheeks—_ "I love you."

For the second time that night, George doesn't say it back, even though they are very much alone.

"Good night Dream, sleep well."

Even though his eyes are shut, and he's bid his goodnight, Clay lays still in his bed, his hands wrapping tightly around the fabric of his shirt. _He had no right to be upset_ , he told himself. George didn't have to love him back.

* * *

When his eyes open once more, he's sitting on the floor of his living room, his back pressed against his couch. Across from him sits George— because _who else_ would it be. He sits on his knees, fingers tapping across his knees as he stares down at the rug. His bottom lip is tugged beneath his teeth as he bites harshly into the skin. _Nervous_ , he thought.

The thought from earlier prods his mind.

_He should just stick to loving his soulmate._

George and his soulmate were one in a kind— the same person. As if he'd thrown a match to gasoline, an angry fire ignited in his chest. Why did George only love him when it came to his dreams?

Suddenly sitting up, George's eyes lift, excitement lacing them.

"Clay," he says breathlessly, his lips parting into a toothy grin. "Are— are you okay?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he drops his head back onto the cushion of the couch, his hands curling against the carpet with agitation.

Why was he so upset? Why was he so confused? Why couldn't the universe pity him for just one moment? He should be happy now that he was back in his dreamland— back with George, and yet, he couldn't find it in himself to even smile.

Why was George so easy to fall for through a screen? Why did he have to live an ocean away? Why did he, after all this time, have to be _his_ soulmate? Why, given his cold and distant tone, have to be so _much_ and yet _not enough_ at the same time when it came to being alone in their dreamland? Why couldn't he remember that George was his soulmate in his waking hours— the same soulmate who'd kissed every digit of his fingers and whispered he loved him against warm sheets?

The silence is enough of an answer for George.

"You're upset with me," he points out anxiously, his voice quiet. It doesn't hold nearly the same amount of excitement as it did before when he whispers, " _aren't you?_ "

He wants to tell him he isn't because he truly has no right to be mad at him. This was the universe's fault, not his, but he couldn't bring himself to lie again. So instead he opens his eyes and stares up at the bare ceiling above him, biting his tongue.

"Why don't you ever say you love me?" 

He sounds like he's on the verge of tears. His voice is wet, wavering as he speaks. His bottom lip quivers the second the sentence leaves his mouth, instantly regretting what he's said when he catches the way George shifts closer to him.

"What?" The brunet speaks, sounding almost offended. "I— I've said _plenty_ of times that I do."

"Only here," he points out, "only ever here."

And suddenly— George is _there—_ hovering a foot from his face with his elbow pressed against the couch. Cautiously, Clay raises his head from the couch.

"Is that what you're so upset about? Because I didn't say I love you earlier when we were awake?"

He feels guilty— _almost feels guilty._ George's voice is the furthest thing from mad and his eyes settle on his own with a certain desperation.

" _Yes_ ," he admits as he holds a breath.

He watches as George's jaw tightens, fixating on the muscles that twitch against his cheeks and jaw as golden eyes sweep across his own face. George cautiously settles down on the floor beside him, their thighs pressing together as the brunet slipped his hand from the couch to Clay's hand. He pushes his fingers apart, threading their fingers together tenderly.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice dropping an octave. With a reassuring squeeze of his hand, George leaned in, brushing their noses together only to pull away, the action enough to have Clay sitting up a bit more. "You know I don't remember who you are when I wake up, don't you?"

Clay, ignoring the burning at the back of his eyes, clenches George's hand in his own, and admits it for the first time out loud.

"I love you here and when we're awake," he admits, pushing up against the carpet closer toward George, "I always love you— soulmate or not."

Something dark ignites in George's eyes before he clenches them shut. He tips his head down, sucking in a faint breath as a swear leaves him. His hand slips from the blond's and Clay does all he can to stop himself from letting the tears slip from his eyes because suddenly, George's dainty fingers settle around his wrist— the tips of his blunt fingernails digging into his soft skin.

"When we're not here, part of me hopes that when you say you love me, you _mean_ it," George admits, carefully grabbing his other wrist as well. Gently unraveling his fingers from around his wrist, he lays his palms flat against his forearms carefully. "I always hope you mean it as more than just a friendly saying, I always hope you think of me the way I think of you. I always hope it's you I dream of because there is no one else in this world I would kiss like the way I kiss you."

George leans in carefully, close enough that Clay can smell the familiar scent of citrus and lavender he began to associate with the brunet.

"I love you so much, _Clay_ ," he admits as he drags his fingernails down his forearm and back to his wrists. A cold chill runs up the blond's spine as his heart races— his nerves shot the moment golden eyes look up to him through thick and dark eyelashes. "You deserve to hear it in person and not through some shitty speaker. You deserve so much more than cheap _'I love you'_ messages over Discord and a love confession over the phone."

With his heart still in his chest, Clay looks down to George with his lips parted.

It made sense, he decided, thinking back to all the times George had refused to say it back over Discord. He sounded hesitant— frightened— worried. The furthest thing away from what someone who would be rejected him would sound like.

"You deserve so much," the brunet murmurs, his eyes dropping to Clay's lips, "and if I have anything to say about it, I'll make sure everything you get is perfect."

Clay doesn't have the time to question the underlying meaning of George's words— not when he's pushed into the cushions of his own couch by bruising hands and warm lips. He does, however, have the time to reach forward and drop his hands to George's hips as the brunet moves to straddle his thighs, not once removing his lips from his. His fingers dip under the fabric of George's shirt as they settle on the hem of the brunet's joggers and the small slither of warm skin just above them.

When they do part, lips red and cheeks flushed, George tilts his head down and brushes his nose against Clay's neck, still holding tight to his wrists which he'd pinned to the couch. "I love you," he whispers as he rubs circles into the blond's wrists, "I love you more than I have ever loved anything before."

Finally, tears slip down his cheeks as George pressed his lips just under his jaw. With shaking hands, he moves his hands up the brunet's bareback, his fingertips brushing against his ribs and spine until he pulled George close in his embrace.

 _How unfair,_ he thought, as George's lips trailed against his neck and to his collar bone.

There wasn't anything he wouldn't give to have this in his waking hours— to know for certain George was _his_. It wasn't fair living this double life— it wasn't fair that he only got to experience this type of love when his eyes were closed— it wasn't fair that every touch between the two of them was only shared in their dreams.

With each kiss, George pulled away for just a moment, long enough to hum "I love you" against his tan skin— and with each kiss, Clay felt more tears slip down his cheeks.

As if the brunet had read his mind, he felt his fingers move against his right wrist. With his lips still attached to his neck, he drew quiet letters into his skin with his thumb, tracing over each letter twice before moving on to finish the word.

_"Mine."_

A sad chuckle left his lips as he tilted his head down. With his hands moving to George's shoulders, he pulled the brunet back down into a bruising kiss— their lips meeting at an awkward angle.

All while they kissed— their breaths mingling and their noses bumping together harshly— Clay couldn't help but focus on the letters being traced into his skin.

_"Mine. My Dream. All mine."_

* * *

When Clay woke up, he remembered how _their_ hands felt against his wrists, how _their_ lips felt against his neck, how _their_ skin felt under his fingertips— but most of all, he remembered exactly what his soulmate had traced into his wrist.

_"My Dream."_

The second his eyes had opened, focused on the still lit screen of his phone, he'd realized that George was still fast asleep. With a bitter feeling in his chest, he'd hung up the facetime call abruptly.

 _It was just a coincidence,_ he thought.

* * *  
 **GEORGE, BUT FOUND <3**

_> Dream??_ _  
_ _> are you awake?_

_> did you end the call without saying good morning?_

_> text me when you wake up?_

_> isn't it like the afternoon for you_

* * *  
 **SAPPY NAPPY**

_> hey_ _  
_ _> ayoooo dreamieeee_

_> man where are you_

_> clay :(_

nick. <

_> woah wtf_ _  
_ _> did u rlly sleep until 3pm man?_

what did you need? <

_> um_ _  
_ _> george was asking if you were around_ _  
_ _> you good?_

yeah <

_> it doesnt seem like youre good man_ _  
_ _> did something happen?_ _  
_ _> can you at least answer the grog so he doesnt keep bothering me </3_

no <  
and sure ill msg him in a bit <

_> the fucks with the dryness_

not dry <

_> what happened man?_

nothing <

_> it's like pulling teeth with you aint it_ _  
_ _> what happened between u and ur soulmate now_ _  
_ _> because idk what else this would be about_

"my dream" <

_> what_ _  
_ _> the saying george got trending last month??_

my soulmate called me it. <

_> ????_ _  
_ _> you're kidding_ _  
_ _> thought you didn't remember when your soulmate said anything personal like that_

i dont. <  
they traced it into my skin <

_> thats_ _  
_ _> sweet???_

my soulmates either a damn fan or it was a coincidence <  
idk why i would have told my soulmate i go by dream though <  
i wouldnt <  
i know i wouldnt <  
why would they know <

_> you don't think//////_

think what?? <

_> george's called you that more than once you know_ _  
_ _> "my dream"_ _  
_ _> you dont think yk_ _  
_ _> georges your soulmate or anything_

shut up <  
dont say that <

_> he said he didnt know what his soulmark was either_ _  
_ _> and hasnt brought it up since u figured out the soulmate thing_ _  
_ _> have you told him about it?_

no. <  
and i dont plan on it <  
dont joke like that <

_> clay_ _  
_ _> im being serious_

the chances of that being true are so low <

_> not impossible._ _  
_ _> why haven't you told him, clay?_ _  
_ _> he's your friend_ _  
_ _> you told me_

its different <

_> how is it different??_ _  
_ _> youre closer with him than anyone else_ _  
_ _> yall sleep call and shit_

i didnt want him to know. <

_> you still like him, dont you?_

nick. <

_> im being serious_ _  
_ _> thats fine if you do_

nick. <

_> sorry sorry_ _  
_ _> im just saying_

_> maybe it's actually him._

* * *  
 **GEORGE, BUT FOUND <3**

sorry man <  
guess my phone glitched or something <

_> no worries :]_ _  
_ _> everything ok? you slept in late_

yeah <  
don't worry ab it <

_> okay... if you say so.._ _  
_ _> im going to stream soon?_ _  
_ _> did you wanna join_

what are ya doing :) <

_> wanted to collect materials on the smp for the village_

ok yeah sure <

* * *

The thing about becoming a YouTuber was Clay learned well enough how to put up a facade. He didn't like lying— he wasn't a liar. He didn't lie to his fans about who he was. He didn't lie to his friends about how he felt, but, he was good at putting up walls to avoid having to talk about certain things.

The moment he'd joined George's voice call on Discord, he put up his facade; he was happy, just a bit tired, but fine nevertheless. It was as if he hadn't spent the entire morning running as fast as he could down the sidewalks of his neighborhood to get the ever-growing _itch_ out from under his skin.

_The less George knew, the better._

"Dream!" He'd greeted happily. "I'm just setting up some last-minute stream stuff."

"Hey George," he greeted tiredly as he leaned against his desk. "Okay, just let me know when you're going to get started. Did you invite anyone else to join?"

There was hesitation.

"Quackity may join in like an hour or so. No one else got back to me fast enough."

"You messaged everyone five minutes ago, didn't you?"

There had been a bit of stifled laughter after that comment.

"Oh, you know me so well, Dream."

"Of course I do."

Time went by quickly after that. George had booted up his stream merrily while Clay pulled it up on his second monitor (he pretended he didn't smile the moment he saw George's facecam on, but truthfully, he couldn't help the grin that spread across his lips the moment he saw the brunet's smile.)

As if nothing had ever been wrong in the first place, Clay fell into their normal banter— joking, flirting, teasing as if he hadn't spent the whole morning tossing and turning in revelation. It was easy to forget about the soulmate issue when he was around George at least.

And honestly, Clay was glad he'd gone almost the whole stream without freaking out again.

George, so innocently, had been reading donos.

"George, did you know that the travel ban in the UK is being lifted in the next week?"

A pause.

"Wait, for real?" He'd found himself asking, his hands automatically working to minimize his Minecraft tab to open google.

"I think so?" George answered. "I could have sworn they were supposed to be making a decision about that stuff later this week."

Sure enough, the donation had been truthful.

* * *

When Clay had fallen asleep that night, having refused to sleep call with the notion that his phone needed to update, he'd woken up a moment later on the bottom step of his staircase, a hand carding through his hair.

"Did you remember?" George murmured from behind him.

Clay couldn't help the way he'd stiffened as he felt George's fingertips work their way through his hair. "Remember _what_?"

Looking down in his lap, he watched as George worked his free hand down his arm until his fingertips rested against his wrist. Pale fingers tapped against tanned skin slowly.

"What I traced into your skin, did you remember?"

Clay didn't answer.

"I remembered," George suddenly said into the shell of his ear. "So you must have remembered too, right?"

Clay can't respond, not when he lets his eyes flutter shut, anxiety bubbling in his chest.

"When we're not here, I pretend that this world isn't where I meet my soulmate," George admits as he links their hands, "so I brushed it off when I woke up. Tried not to freak out when you ignored me. I think I figured it out a while ago, but I was always in denial."

Clay shakes his head. "Maybe I'm too oblivious."

Behind him, George nudges his knee into the small of his back. "That's okay, we'll figure it out."

"Not too sure about that one," Clay admits. "I'm oblivious _and_ in denial. That's not a good mixture."

"Again, we'll figure it out."

George reassuringly squeezes his hand and he _breaks._

"I want it to be you so badly," he says, dropping his head against George's chest. "I wish it was easier than this. Why can't we just remember?"

Warm fingers trace his cheekbones as warm tears well in his eyes.

"When I'm not here, I'm stuck between loving two people and it's not _fair,_ not when you two are literally the same person. I can't keep doing this, can't keep losing you when I wake up, can't keep telling myself you'll never feel the same way I feel about you and then come here and have you tell me you love me."

When he finally opens his eyes, George is looking downward at him with doe-like eyes. His hands still against his cheeks as he lowers his head.

"I'm sorry, Clay."

With the little strength he holds, Clay reaches upwards to capture George's cheeks between his hands.

"Just come and see me, _please_."

* * *  
 **THE BOYS**

weird question <  
u guys busy this upcoming week? <

**SAP**   
_> random asf_ _  
_ _> u think we have lives?_

**GEORGE**   
_> i have a life_

**SAP**   
_> yeah in your dreams_ _  
_ _> what's up dream_ _  
_ _> u good?_

with the travel bans being removed <  
do you guys want to meet up or something soon <  
i may or may not be lonely </3 <

**GEORGE**   
_> wack_ _  
_ _> i was about to message asking the same thing?_

**SAP**   
_> mind linked zombies_ _  
_ _> out of here with that shit  
> but awe dreamie, u need company?? <333_

don't be weird sapnap <  
but for real <  
do you guys want to fly out next week? <  
i have the room at my place <

**SAP**   
_> u serious man?_

yeah <  
i mean if you guys want to <  
dont have to of course <

**SAP**   
_> ok say less_ _  
_ _> ur spontaneous nature is sexy  
_

_> almost as sexy as u <3_

**GEORGE**   
_> weird champ???_ _  
_ _> guess im down too_

sick. <

* * *

Upon his kitchen counter sits George. His legs dangle over the marble as he unfolds and refolds his hands in his lap. Between his legs, Clay stands, his hands resting on the brunet's knees.

"Are you nervous?" He asks carefully, watching as his lover's eyes flicker up so can stare up at him through thick eyelashes. "You know you don't have to be."

A huff of a breath leaves the brunet's lips. "I'm excited," he corrects politely, "but yeah, I'm nervous too. Aside from the _soulmate_ thing, this is my first time meeting you and Sap in person. It's going to be weird."

Clay shrugs, shaking his head. "I promise it won't be that weird, we'll all be together at least!"

"I'm just excited to finally prove that I _am_ taller than Sapnap."

A chuckle erupts from Clay's chest. He'd never met with Sapnap before either, but somehow, he knew George would be shorter.

"I doubt that," he voices, "what are you, five-seven?"

"I'm five-nine, dipwad."

He raises an unamused eyebrow. "Are you sure about that? You're almost a full foot shorter than me, you know. Have you been lying about your height?"

With puckered lips, George shakes his head, avoiding his soulmate's gaze. " _No_ , I haven't..."

Unconvinced, Clay leans in, dipping his head down until his nose brushes against the pale and soft skin of George's neck. "Oh, yeah?" He whispers, his lips brushing against the skin there briefly. "You keep lying to yourself then."

Under him, George shivers. "We better figure this out when I'm there," he says, moving his hands to grip his soulmate's shoulders. "I don't want to miss out on more than we already have."

"We won't miss out on each other any longer, I promise."

Moving forward, Clay finally presses his lips against his soulmate's neck, revealing in the small gasp he makes at the contact.

* * *

They had a week until George and Sapnap would be in Florida. A week of banter in the morning— a week of falling asleep on calls— a week of shared dreams— and a week of falling even further than before.

Clay found himself falling further and further into the dilemma he'd been stuck in for _months_ — stuck between having to pick between his _soulmate_ and _George._

In his waking hours, he spent his time fantasizing about what it would like to be with George. He wondered how his lips would feel against his, how his hands would feel intertwined with his, and how it would feel hearing the three words he desired the most slipping from his lips.

In his waking hours, he wondered _who_ his soulmate was and why exactly they loved him the way they did. Why did they cherish him so much? Their banter and the way they kissed made it feel like they'd known one another for an eternity rather than just several months, but he guessed that made sense. They were _soulmates_ after all— they were meant for each other and had been for eons. Their past, present, and future was written in the stars, intertwined with one another; for without one the other wouldn't be.

In his waking hours, he hoped— he prayed maybe Sapnap's comment was right— that maybe George truly was his soulmate— but then the sudden realization that there were more than seven _billion_ people in the world came crashing onto him, and that the likelihood the _one_ person he'd already fallen for had been his soulmate all along just couldn't be true.

_(With that realization, Clay ignored the way his soulmate traced the words "my dream" every night. He ignored the fact that he somehow loved his soulmate more than anything in the entire damn world and he couldn't understand why. He ignored the fact that somewhere deep down inside him he already knew who his soulmate was, even if he was in denial.)_

In his sleeping hours, when he was in his dreamland with his soulmate— with _George—_ he felt like he won the lottery. They pressed lazy kisses against one another— let hands wander— spoke about all they would do once they finally figured their damn _shit_ out.

In his sleeping hours, he had all he wanted. He had George _and_ his soulmate. He got to hold all he wanted in between his arms without a worry.

In his sleeping hours, he and George bantered about everything but nothing at the same time. They spoke about how painfully oblivious the both of them were— spoke about their fears for how things could go wrong— but spoke about how right everything could go too.

Deep down inside, Clay knew things would figure themselves out.

The universe wouldn't have put them together— wouldn't have given them this specific soulmark if it weren't meant to be.

* * *

Exactly a week after Clay had messaged their group chat suggesting they finally meet up, Sapnap shows up at his doorstep with a suitcase in hand.

 _"Dream!"_ Sapnap greeted, dropping the handle of his suitcase before he practically threw himself at Clay.

With open arms and a wide smile, he'd hugged his friend back, buzzing with excitement at the fact he was finally meeting his online friend of nine years in _person._

 _"Dude, you're so much taller than I thought you'd be,"_ Sapnap had commented, pulling away from their hug. _"Like seriously, I'm what? Five-ten? And you tower over me dude!"_

 _"And you're short,"_ Clay had commented, opening his front door and letting his friend in.

_"Hopefully I'm taller than George, at least."_

And somehow, with Sapnap looking up at him with a raised eyebrow, Clay already knew the answer; he was in fact taller than George.

The two hours he spent with Sapnap before George's flight landed were the easiest two hours of his life. He had his _best friend_ there in front of him— he got to see his friend's face as he spoke— got to see the way he moved his hands in emphasis as he spoke— and it made everything just so much more _real_ to him.

He'd hugged Sapnap several times since he'd stepped foot in his house and neither of them seemed to mind.

Clay was so grateful— so grateful to have his friend there— so grateful to finally not be alone in his house haunted with ghosts.

In the two hours they had, Clay showed Sapnap— _Nick_ , one of the spare rooms he had. They spoke easily as Nick unpacked, spoke about youtube, Florida's traffic, and what they could do with their time together.

Only once had Nick mentioned his soulmate, and that had been _after_ he flinched.

 _"What's up with that?"_ He'd asked from the floor where he sat crisscrossed as Sapnap sat on the edge of the guest bedroom's bed.

 _"Nothing,"_ he'd said, _"my soulmate just really loves blasting music for some reason. We're listening to some musical now I guess?"_

At that, Clay had laughed.

_"Your guys' music styles are very different."_

_"They really are,"_ Sapnap had agreed, shaking his head. _"But anyway! How are you and your soulmate doing? Have you seen them recently?"_

 _"I see them every night, Nick,"_ he'd replied. _"But I think things are good— just... A lot of my dreams are just empty static at this point. Like I know I was with them, but at this point, I can't remember anything from our interactions anymore."_

Nick, at that, had looked down at him with startled eyes.

_"Is that a new thing?"_

_"Yeah, fairly. I think it started a week or so ago?"_

A beat passed— Sapnap had turned his head upward to the clock with a sigh.

_"We should probably go. George's plane should be landing soon."_

* * *

The drive to the airport was easy. Sapnap had connected his phone to Clay's bluetooth speaker, shuffling a random playlist as they made their way to the airport. They had an easy conversation, pointing out the plates on cars as they passed them and spoke about some of their favorite music artists as they dropped open all the windows.

The moment they'd stepped into the airport, Clay felt his skin crawl.

_"Everything's going to be fine, loverboy. Stop making yourself nervous."_

_"Loverboy?"_

_"Thought it was fitting."_

As they walked to the baggage claim, they'd received the message from George he'd landed and he'd meet them after the TSA check-in.

Clay couldn't help the way he started pacing even after Sapnap took a seat.

He tried preoccupying himself by counting the lights on the ceiling, and then when he got bored of that he started counting how many people were around them. Having gotten so preoccupied with the task of _forgetting_ about George— he almost missed it when the Brit had stepped into their vicinity. Sapnap had been the first to notice him.

_"George!"_

When he'd turned around, standing in the middle of the hall with a backpack thrown over his shoulder was the _painfully_ familiar figure of his online friend—

Something in his chest had seized when he noticed the brunet start running toward him.

 _Too familiar,_ he thought. _Way too familiar,_ as George jumped into his arms.

As he felt another pair of arms wrap around the both of them, Clay still found himself questioning why this all felt too familiar.

_"Dream! Sapnap! I'm here!"_

_"Really? I didn't notice, you fucking liar."_

_"Liar?"_

_"You're shorter than me!"_

The ride from the airport back to Clay's house is simple— as if the three of them had always been together in person. Their banter is nothing different from their normal Discord and Teamspeak calls when George and Sapnap argue about which music station was better to play.

Sapnap sits in the back, telling George he'd already gotten _"enough Dream time"_ while George sits in the passenger seat with his knees tucked up against his chest.

"Do you _have_ to sit like that?" Clay questions after some time, his fingers strumming quietly against his steering wheel as he focused on the highway in front of them.

"What? Is there something wrong with how I'm sitting?"

 _No, there isn't,_ he figures, but something about the position is way too familiar to him— the way he sits with his hands dangling over his knees, his head tilted upward, his eyelashes catching the sunlight, his lips tilted upward— he knew he never saw George sit like that before, but his gut was telling him something different.

He hated the way his head spun, the way his stomach dropped when he'd turned his head just the slightest from the road to his friend— hated the way he felt like this wasn't the first time they'd been together.

"You know what they say, if you got into a car crash and your knees were like that you'd—"

"Sapnap!" George scolded, turning over in his chair. Through the corner of his eye, Clay couldn't help but notice as George threw an open palm into the backseat, receiving a small "ouch" from Sapnap. "Don't joke about that stuff."

"I was just _saying,_ safe driving habits man!"

Clay's hand tightens around the wheel when George laughs— his knuckles turning white as the brunet settles back into his seat all while fishing his phone out from the cupholder between them.

"Okay, _anyway_! We have to tell Twitter we're together."

Glancing up to the rearview mirror, Clay catches a glimpse of Sapnap in the backseat as he sits up to look over George's shoulder.

"What, do you want to break the internet so soon?"

"Why not."

"I doubt they'll believe whatever you say," Clay snickers out, "you traumatized them with the vlog."

An offended gasp leaves the brunet as a dainty hand drops to his shoulder, the touch too familiar that it _burns_.

"Um, that's all on _you._ You were the one who was all like ' _oh no, George, my flight got canceled because of the virus. No, go ahead and meet Wilbur without me, George!'_ "

The trio can't help but cringe at the awfully put-together American accent George tried to mimic.

"Don't ever do that again, please. Spare our ears," Sapnap pleaded. "Okay, okay, but _please_ tweet something. Take a picture with me! We can tweet that out!"

After _ten_ minutes of fidgeting, retaking the picture, and then arguing, George eventually does post a picture to his Twitter with the caption _"friends don't lie?"_ When the traffic on the highway becomes bad to the point where they've stopped, George flashes the phone in front of Clay's face so he can see the photo they'd taken.

There, sitting in the frame of the photo is George with an awkward smile, Sapnap peeking out from behind the chair with an ecstatic smirk and right above their hands, mid-wave, is his own hand, the green bracelet he'd worn all those months ago in his first unboxing video showing proudly.

"Twitter's going to love this one."

"George, _please_."

* * *

The rest of their ride goes off without a hitch. When they parked back into Clay's driveway, he wasted no time helping George pull his luggage from the trunk.

"Why didn't you help me with my bags, Dream?" Sapnap whined from his side, pulling on his arm as they walked up the driveway just a few steps ahead of George.

"Because you're a strong, capable man, Nick," Clay had bit back, pushing his friend as he fished his keys from his pocket.

Behind him, George had huffed dramatically. "What, are you calling me weak now?"

"I mean— I never said _that_."

Sapnap only snickers beside him as he finally works to unlock the door. With a roll of his eyes, he pushes his friend through the front door, causing him to tumble into the hallway with an offended squawk.

"Man, what the hell! Is this the payment I get for being a good friend?"

Following after him, Clay shook his head, his hands dipping into the pockets of his hoodie. "No, that's what you get for being in my space bubble."

"Fair enough, I mean, fair enough."

Not bothering to turn, Clay began toeing his shoes off, watching constantly as Sapnap made his way into the open kitchen across from them.

"You guys are hungry too, right? I'm starving."

Hearing the familiar click of the front door, Clay wandered after Sapnap, flicking the kitchen lights on as he did. "Yeah, I'm sure George is too. Doubt airplanes have any good food."

"True that," Sapnap agreed, turning. "Wait, let me go grab my sweatshirt from upstairs. It's literally freezing in here with the ac."

With quick footsteps, Sapnap retreats from the room, his arms wrapped around his chest while Clay chuckles. He makes his way over to his counter, turning his head over his shoulder as he did. "George! Is there anything you want to eat right now?"

There's a moment of silence, a single beat that has Clay turning around in confusion.

"George?"

When he turns, George is frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes glazed over with an expression he couldn't quite put his finger on. He's tempted to call his friend's name again— ask him if he's okay— but then _it_ hits him. He'd seen George in his house before. He'd seen George in his kitchen before.

_"What am I doing here? You're the one in my dream, idiot."_

_"If this isn't real, then, can I kiss you?"_

_"You know I love you, right?"_

_"You think we're lovers, Dream?"_

_"I always hope it's you."_

It hits him all at once— there's no graduality to it. George looks too familiar standing there in his house and in a blink of an eye, he knows _why._ He understands _why_ he knows exactly what it felt like to be wrapped up in the brunet's arms— why he _knew_ for a fact he was shorter than Sapnap— why he knew it looked so familiar to glance at his profile bathed in the morning sun—

The memories flood his brain without warning.

_Lips, pressed against his neck— pale and slender fingers entangled with his— soft hands tracing his biceps— quiet breaths of laughter against the shell of his ear— legs wrapped with his— fingers working their way through his hair— thumbs pressed against his cheeks lovingly— fingernails tracing his collarbones— lips capturing his—_

_Shared secrets as the sunset on their time_ _— shared laughs as they pushed and pulled on each other's hands_ _— their feet racing up and down his stairs and hallway_ _— their hands intertwined, swaying between them as they spoke about the little things_ _— the vent sessions Clay had time and time again_ _— the way George had quelled every single one of his fears time and time again without question_ _—_

The person who had once been faceless— the memories that had once been replaced with static— had _finally_ come into full view.

The universe had finally decided that _now_ was their time.

Neither of them move for a moment, both caught in the riptide of the universe.

There's a split second where Clay thinks that maybe he'd been wrong all along. That maybe his soulmark wasn't actually shared dreams and this whole time, he'd been absolutely _delusional_. He's about to go with that option, about to brush it off and forget about the prickling anxiety that has started to bud under his skin, but then _finally_ George shifts.

He smiles bright enough to put the sun to shame.

He takes the first step forward, his hand twitching at his side.

George's lips part carefully as he says, "okay, so I guess _that's_ how we figure out?"

All the doubt he'd ever held— all the uncertainty and nerves— all the what if's and what should be's fly out the window as Clay makes his way back to George, who opens his arms lovingly for him.

This hug is different from the one they'd shared in the airport.

This time, Clay wraps his arms around the small of George's back as the brunet locks his hands behind his neck— this time, Clay is picking him up, his chest hurting as he laughs— this time, George tucks his face into the side of his neck, a breath of relief escaping him.

It's more intimate than he'd expected— but more _real_ all the same.

"Oh my God," he mutters quietly, his hands tightening around the Brit. "I thought I was going to go insane."

When George's feet hit the ground once more, Clay is bending down, pressing their foreheads together. There's a fleeting moment where he thinks this is supposed to feel _weird_ , but really, it _doesn't_. It doesn't feel any different from their dreams, the only difference being the fact that Clay could finally feel relief— that he wasn't feeling the always present pin and needles above his head, taunting him.

"Me too," the brunet says, his eyes flickering shut as he unravels his hands from the back of Clay's neck, moving them to rest on his biceps. "God... me too."

As he hears footsteps returning back down the hall, Clay presses a second lasting kiss to George's forehead, pulling away timidly as Sapnap returns back into the kitchen, clad in a new sweatshirt.

The youngest pauses mid-step, his eyes snapping upward.

"Woah, did I miss something?"

There's an awkward chuckle, and then, George is dropping his head against his bicep, his shoulders shaking as he _laughed._ Clay couldn't help it— couldn't help the way he doubled over, his hands wrapping back around his _soulmate_ as he laughed too.

He couldn't believe how close he'd been to having all he ever wished for.

* * *

_"So, you guys are soulmates?"_

_"Uh— yes, Sapnap? Why aren't you freaking out?"_

_"I called it weeks ago, please."_

* * *

After fixing the three of them an early dinner (which really was just a pot of Kraft mac-n-cheese) Clay had suggested they all turn in early for the night, which everyone agreed to happily. With Sapnap having slipped up the stairs and into one of the guest bedrooms just moments before, Clay finds himself trailing after George down the hallway as if he were a guest in his own home. Clay carries the brunet's suitcase, watching as George looks around with curiosity.

"It doesn't look as empty in here anymore."

"It was never empty to begin with," Clay points out, "that weird dreamscape place just made it seem like it was."

"Uh-huh, sure. I bet you pulled everything out just recently so we wouldn't make fun of you for having an empty house."

"George, you are _so_ weird, you know that, right?"

With quiet giggles, the two of them make it up the staircase to the second floor. About to show George where the second guest bedroom is— he's surprised when George turns right toward his bedroom door and opens it.

"George?"

Leaving his suitcase pressed up against the wall, he follows after the Brit. The second he steps into his own room, a hand captures his wrist, pulling him in further until his bedroom door is closed behind him.

"Oh, okay," he hums happily, reaching out in the dark until he feels George's hands intertwine with his. "You wanna turn the light on?"

"No, not really," the brunet replied, tugging on his hands until he felt the edge of his bed hit against his knees. "Can I come sleep with you?"

"Does that even have to be a question?"

As he sits on the edge of his bed, pulling George closer, he feels as though this should be weird seeing as this is their first time actually _seeing_ one another— but then he remembers the months they'd spent in their dreamscape together, solely devoted to one another.

He guesses, as he lays on his back and George drops his head against his chest, that this was just an ordinary night for him after all.

At least this time, he'd wake up and _remember._

With his eyes slipping shut and his hands resting against George's slowly rising back, he whispers into the darkness, "I love you."

There's a chaste kiss pressed to his lips, soft and warm— hands pressed against his chest—

Equally, filled with love, George says, "I love you too," and it's the first time he's heard him say it while they're awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was truly one of the most fun one-shots I've worked on! I worked on a similar concept for another fandom a few years back and really wanted to explore it again! I am so happy with how this came out and I am so glad to hear all the feedback you guys have to give!
> 
> If you want to see more works from me, please check me out on twitter @ darlingsvdream for updates :]


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